


Happy Birthday, Tom Wambsgans

by Scrunyuns



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: AU: greg cares abt tom lol, Angst, Dating (kinda), Falling In Love, Fantasizing, Flirting, Fluff, Greg is the Born Sexy Yesterday trope and Tom is a thirsty morosexual, Greg’s love language is ALL OF THEM, Internalized Homophobia, Jealousy, M/M, Mutual Pining, Open Relationships, Pining, Recreational Drug Use, Romance, TW: Tomwamb Thoughts & Behavior, Tom gets a little bit genghis khan all over this fic, Touching, UST, and obviously in the before times. before the CPK in park avenue closed for good (rip), fruit (derogatory), set sometime after s2e7: ‘Return’ but before the season finale, the author loves oxford commas and semicolons ;-), this is the fic where greg asks tom ‘do you feel held by her?’ but like with different words, tom & greg are each others’ manic pixie dream girl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-13 19:55:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28534023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scrunyuns/pseuds/Scrunyuns
Summary: It’s Tom’s birthday and he’s got the whole day planned, but Shiv bails on him last minute. So of course, he does what any sane man would do and asks his goofy assistant to come along instead.(this started out as just your run-of-the-mill ‘Tom & Greg go out and everyone thinks theyre a couple’ fic but then it kinda morphed into something else)
Relationships: Greg Hirsch/Tom Wambsgans, Siobhan "Shiv" Roy/Tom Wambsgans
Comments: 83
Kudos: 87





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shiv disposes, Tom proposes~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> right at the top here’s a Fair Warning: for this fic I’ve taken some artistic liberties with the establishments around NYC, i.e. theyre mostly made up because ive never been there lol. anyway I hope u enjoy

“I can’t make it tomorrow.”

Shiv’s voice sounds hollow and tinny over the phone. Even more distant than usual.

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry, Tom, it’s my Dad…”

_Ah, there it is,_ Tom thinks to himself. _Passed over for Daddy, yet again._

“He has a thing and he wants me in the room, I can’t-“

“For the whole day?” Tom asks. 

For a few terrible seconds, it’s radio silence on the other end of the line.

“Yes.”

“But I’ve made reservations, Shiv. I’ve got the whole day planned for us.”

“Tom…”

“Did you tell him it’s my birthday?”

Shiv goes quiet on him again.

“Actually, you know what, nevermind.” He doesn’t want to know the answer. “It’s… it’s fine.”

_She’s made up her mind anyway, hasn’t she?_

“I’ll make it up to you, though,” Shiv promises. “We can do it next weekend, maybe? Late birthday? I mean it’s just a date on the calendar, right? Like it doesn’t actually mean anything. It’s not like it’s your Sweet Sixteen.”

Tom wants nothing more than to just throw his phone against the wall.

“Uh-huh. Yeah, no, sure.”

“I knew you’d understand. You’re such a chill guy.”

“That’s me,” Tom chuckles half-heartedly, trying to keep the lump in his throat down.

“I love you,” Shiv says, but her tone goes up a couple of octaves at the end - as if it’s a question and not a statement.

“Yeah. I love you too.”

“I’ll see you soon, yeah?”

“Well, it’s late so I’ll be asleep but… yeah. Just try not to wake me up when you get home.”

  
You’d think that with all the recent unpleasantness in their marriage, she would’ve felt a need to make an effort. But apparently her conscience is pretty clear. _Good for her, I guess._ Tom can’t help but be in awe of her; he wishes he could be that fucking ruthless.

More than anything, though, he feels small. Smaller than an ant, smaller than bacteria. 

It would be so easy to wallow in it, but he still has some dignity. He can’t be alone. He _won’t_ be alone, not on his birthday.

How fucking sad would that be, sitting alone in their apartment, pining away… and if he were to take advantage of all the reservations he’s made - which he really should, seeing as they’re all either pre-ordered or pre-paid - that would be even sadder. By himself at a couple’s spa day, by himself at dinner, by himself at the opera? No. There’s just no fucking way.

He pick up his phone again, finds Greg in his contacts.

  
  


**Hverir at 9:00 tomorrow morning.**

It’s a command, not a request.

Several minutes pass before he receives an answer, and Tom is almost starting to get worried when he finally hears that coveted ping.

**_isnt that the spa?_ **

Then there’s another ping.

**_what are we doing??_ **

And another:

**_should i groom myself for this???_ **

Tom can’t stop himself from smiling. He knew Greg would say yes. Greg always says yes. The kid doesn’t have a life, God bless him.

**Yes it’s the spa.** **And you’ll see. And yes you probably should groom yourself, whatever that means in Gregese.**

**_okay cool_ **

****Bring your swimmers too.** **

**_**should i bring a towel?** _ **

****No Greg you boob. They have towels there.** **

_****but hey its Thursday tomorrow. dont we have to like work???** ** _

****As your boss, I am telling you to regard this as a work outing.** **

_**okay so like where do we meet?** _

**It’s at the top floor of the old Beauford Hotel, the one on the LE. But just meet me in the lobby.**

_**the LE??** _

**Lower East! Jesus Christ, Greg.**

_**oic. okay** _

**Do NOT be late.**

**_k i wont 😉 see u there!_ **

  
  


_Wink emoji?_ Tom asks himself. _Last time I got a wink emoji was… never?_

  
  


After a while of agonizing over what to respond with, he shoots a wink emoji right back. And then a sleepy emoji, just for good measure.

Still smiling, Tom settles in for the night with his eye mask, his nasal strip, and an Ambien.


	2. Hverir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom & Greg go to the spa.

Shiv is already gone by the time Tom wakes up from his beauty sleep.

  
  


Humming various birthday songs to himself, Tom showers and shaves and cleans his teeth. He then goes to let Mondale out of his enclosure for a little while, now that Shiv isn’t around to scold him for it.

“Happy birthday!” he growls, putting on his signature Mondale voice. “I ruw you, Tom!”

Mondale wags his tail and jumps on him, ecstatic about finally being free.

It’s not all bad; he’s going out with Greg today. That should be fun. Greg is fun, always up for whatever - unless it’s orgies or human footstooling, of course.

Tom still can’t believe he had felt intimidated by him when they’d first met. Maybe it was just because he was younger and taller, the fresh face on the scene, all shiny and new... or maybe it was that Greg is technically a Roy.

Either way, after having known him for quite some time now, it’s become crystal clear to Tom that Gregory Hirsch couldn’t intimidate anyone. Shit, he couldn’t intimidate a _hamster_. Even his blackmail game leaves something to be desired, as Tom had recently found out. The boy is about as hard and ruthless as a Beanie Baby.

Tom just hopes Greg doesn’t embarrass them both today, as he is wont to do. He could definitely see him weirding out the spa staff with his bizarre, gangly body. He could see him making all kinds of rookie mistakes, like leaving his socks on or some shit. 

_God... that kid’s probably never even seen the inside of a spa before._

  
Tom’s stomach growls.

Back in the day, his mom and dad would always make him a stack of pancakes for breakfast on his birthday. They used to stick a sparkler in it and bring it to him in bed, waking him up with a birthday song.

With Shiv, he’ll be lucky if he can score one of her stale croissants from the day before.

Tom usually has to make do with a card, carefully selected by his wife’s assistant and adorned with Shiv’s hasty chicken scratch, bearing an empty and impersonal greeting. However, when he’d woken up this morning and looked over at his nightstand, he’d realized that this year he hadn’t even gotten that. Hell, not so much as a birthday text on his phone.

And so Tom thinks perhaps she’s left something in the kitchen for him; a written apology for abandoning him to be with her dad? Maybe a birthday muffin from the bakery down the road, _something._ But it would seem he is shit out of luck.

Sighing, Tom grabs an overripe banana from the fruit bowl and heads out the door.

  
  


—

  
  


Greg is late, the bastard. By a whole eight minutes. When Tom had explicitly asked him not to be fucking late.

Tom rolls his eyes when he finally spots his uncoordinated assistant bounding down the street, his overgrown limbs flailing.

“Sorry I’m late, man,” Greg apologizes, out of breath. “Like, my Uber... he couldn’t go down this one street because... because of the road works, so he had to turn back...”

“Uh-huh.”

“And the traffic was crazy, so I had to like, just get out and jog the rest of it... dude, it was a whole thing...”

“Well,” Tom says, motioning for Greg to follow him inside. “I did have an inkling this would happen. Which is why I asked you to meet me here well before our appointment.”

“Oh good!” Greg smiles, relieved. “Coming down the block, I saw uh, I saw the spa at the top there. It’s like a big greenhouse!”

Tom has to laugh; Greg’s unbridled enthusiasm for anything large and lavish will never cease to amuse him.

“Well, then it’s fitting, isn’t it? A greenhouse for a green boy.”

Greg takes the jab with a laugh.

“Better not leave me in there too long then, huh?” he jokes. “I might just grow even taller, bust right through the ceiling.”

Greg’s self-deprecating joke puts a smile on Tom’s face. _Yeah, maybe this birthday won’t be so bad after all._

  
  
  


The hotel, being almost a hundred years old, still only has two elevators. One is already on it’s way up. The second is small and cramped, and the doors are just about to close, but Tom and Greg decide to try and go for it anyway. They squeeze in at the last minute, much to the dismay of the other guests.

Tom can feel Greg’s warm body squished up against him. It’s an odd sensation, but not entirely unpleasant. Astoundingly, he even smells nice.

“Hey, how’s Shiv?” Greg asks. “Did she get you a present?”

“She’s fine.”

Tom doesn’t particularly feel like elaborating.

“Oh, uh... and Mondale?”

“Mondale?” Nobody ever asks about his dog. “He’s uh... yeah, good. Got a bit of an irritable bowel thing going on, so we’ve put him on the food for sensitive stomachs.”

“Aw, poor boy.”

“Yeah. We booked our dog sitter for the whole day, so he should be alright.”

“Cool. I like Mondale, he’s a good dog.”

“Mmm. He is.”

Uncomfortable with the silence that ensues, Greg starts making these little noises with his mouth, something sort of beatbox-adjacent. And really fucking annoying.

“So... _Hverir_ , huh?” he says, fumbling the pronunciation spectacularly. “Cool name.”

“It’s Icelandic, I think. It means hot spring or something.”

“And, uh, how much is the entry fee?”

“Oh, I’m paying, Greg.”

“What, really?” Greg exclaims, a bit too loud. “Thanks, man!”

Greg tries to give him a hug then, but it’s all just terribly awkward in this space.

“I’ve never been to a spa before,” he says, smiling wide.

“I know, Greg.”

“There’s one in my building and I’m allowed to use it, like, free of charge, but I’ve never been. Just a bit uh... daunting, you know? Going by yourself?”

Tom laughs and shakes his head at him.

“Sure, Greg.”

Stepping into the spa, Greg’s eyes go wide with wonder.

“Dude, it’s huge...” he whispers, awestruck.

Tom simply hums in agreement as he removes his coat, trying not to look too impressed. He can’t be seen to be in awe of things, especially places that he’s already been to before. It makes him look like a tourist, he now knows, and Shiv has had that beaten out of him a long time ago.

He has to admit, though, this place still takes his breath away. Just a little bit.

“The hotel itself is from like the mid-twenties, but all of this is pretty new. 2013, I think?”

“Oh wow,” Greg says, gazing up at the vaulted art deco ceiling, all wrought iron and glass. “Like, it looks pretty old? In a good way, I mean.”

“Yeah, well apparently they tacked on a couple more floors for the spa,” Tom explains. “But they decided to keep the original style... I think they even modeled the ceiling off the original one? Which, you know, thank God. I mean, could you imagine if it was just a big square glass box on top of this gorgeous old building? It would be a crime most foul.”

Greg nods absentmindedly, still gawking at the space like a little kid at the zoo.

“Gentlemen?” a small voice pipes up. “We’re ready for you now.”

The olive-skinned little slip of a girl behind the front desk motions them forward and Tom steps up, membership card at the ready in his right hand.

“Good morning, and welcome to Hverir. How may I assist you today?”

“Wambsgans, party of two. We’re pre-paid, I believe?”

“Ah yes, I see you’re scheduled for the couple’s package.”

“Well,” Tom interjects, blood rushing to his face now. “Yes, the couple’s package, but we’re not really a... couple, um.”

_God, it’s hot in here._

“You see, my wife was supposed to be here with me today, but unfortunately she had somewhere else to be, so... my buddy Greg here will be, uh, will be taking over. So to speak. Taking her spot.”

“Hey,” Greg says with a timid little wave of his hand.

The receptionist’s eyes briefly glance from his face to Greg’s, and then back at Tom. Her expression betrays no emotion. _She probably doesn’t give a shit either way. Why would she?_ Now he’s gone and made a mountain out of a molehill, and in the process just made himself look more suspect.

“That’s no problem at all, Sir.”

“Great!” Tom exclaims, clapping his hands together.

The sharp clap reverberates through the spa like a gunshot, making every guest in the vicinity turn to look at them. Tom is instantly mortified. He’d forgotten how good the acoustics are in this place.

“Please remove your outerwear,” the receptionist says, unfazed. “My colleagues here will take care of them for you, and you will get them back at the end of your stay.”

She gestures to someone behind them. Tom and Greg are both mildly startled as they turn around to see two more waifs standing at attention. _Have they been here this whole time?_ Tom muses. _They would make excellent cat burglars._

“Uh, should I take my phone?” Greg asks as he takes off his coat and hands it to one of the coat check waifs.

“This is a stress free zone, Sir,” the girl behind the desk explains. “We don’t allow phones or tablets of any kind inside the spa.”

“Oh okay, yeah. Good, um... good policy.”

Sitting down to take off his shoes, Tom’s mouth twists into a crooked smile. He knows it’s only half true; every time he has come here with Shiv, they’ve let them take their phones. No questions asked.

The notion that he is indistinguishable from all the other guests when he is without Shiv on his arm... it stings a bit.

  
  


The two waifs disappear with their coats and shoes. Next, a young man comes to collect them; a well groomed, Nordic-looking fellow, somewhere in his mid-twenties.

“Good morning, Sirs,” he greets them, almost robotically. “My name is Magnus. How are we today?”

“Fine, thank you,” Tom answers for them both.

“I will be taking you to the dressing rooms shortly,” the Vikingbot informs them. He gestures back to his colleague at the desk. “But first, we have some complimentary slippers here for you. Please inform Alex here as to your size, and she will retrieve them for you.”

“Thirteen,” Tom replies.

He is actually a twelve and a half, but he doesn’t want to be upstaged too much by Greg. He likes a bit of room to move anyway.

Alex vanishes under her desk. When she resurfaces, she sets a pair of slippers on the counter for him. Then she turns to Greg.

“And you, Sir?”

“Um, fifteen, please,” Greg says, a bit quiet. “But if, uh, if you don’t have that, like I totally understand. I can make do with like, an approximate size? The largest you have?”

_Didn’t think to just bring your own, huh Greg? Save us the trouble?_ What if the receptionist can’t find ones that’ll fit his enormous Sasquatch feet. Then they’ll have to go out and buy some for him. _We might miss out on the hot stone massage, it’ll be a whole ordeal-_

But after some thorough searching, Alex reappears with a pair of huge slippers.

“You’re in luck,” she says, beaming.

“Oh wow, awesome!” Greg lets out a sigh of relief. “Thank you so much, Alex.”

“Not a problem, Sir.”

  
Tom frowns; the smile she offers Greg is a little bit too genuine for his liking. _Maybe she’s thinking about what a huge dick he must have, to go with those preposterous feet..._

_No. Stop it, Tom._

“Follow me, please,” says Magnus the Viking.

He leads them to a long set of winding stairs, and down to the lower level. Trailing behind, Greg marvels at how tall the ceilings are, even here on the floor below.

“So have you two been to Hverir before?”

“He hasn’t,” Tom replies, “But I have. A few times, actually.”

“Oh well, perhaps you would like to show your partner how it works, then?”

“He’s not my partner,” Tom corrects.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Sir. I was informed you were having the couple’s package, so I just assumed-”

“It’s fine.”

“Yeah man, don’t worry,” Greg chimes in. “Like, I’m actually used to it. I’ve been told I have a somewhat, um, effeminate energy-”

“Greg-”

“Well, here we are!” Magnus chirps. “Your changing rooms.”

They come to a halt by a long row of doors with fixtures that look like keycard readers, and Magnus holds up a pair of futuristic looking wristbands. Now comes the spiel that Tom has heard so many times before, he can practically recite it from memory.

“We keep the doors locked when in use, and they can only be opened by our special waterproof key bands. Here you go, that’s number sixteen and seventeen.”

Tom and Greg grab one each. Pretty familiar with the routine by now, Tom slips his band on with ease - Greg, however, needs a bit more help. Seeing him fumbling with it, Magnus comes to his rescue.  
  


”There,” the handsome young lad says as he clips it onto Greg’s slender wrist.

“Thanks, man.”

Greg smiles, looking bashful - coy, even. Tom rolls his eyes.

“So in there,” Magnus continues, picking up where he left off, “you can feel comfortable leaving clothes and whatever valuables you may be keeping on your person. There is a water closet, feel free to use it if you should need to before your treatment. You will also find complimentary robes and towels.”

Greg and Tom nod in unison.

“I would like to remind you that you have a hot stone massage scheduled for fifteen minutes from now, so if you could be ready by twenty to ten, that would be just perfect. I will be waiting outside to collect you and take you to the hot stone room.”

“I know the drill, thanks,” Tom says.

He enters changing room #17, leaving Greg to receive Vikingbot’s no doubt lengthy run-down on the establishment’s hygiene standards and proper spa attire and whatever else.

“See you back out here in ten, buddy.”

  
  
  



	3. Hot Stones & Mud Wraps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom’s crumbling marriage keeps being a Topic.

Gazing out over the city, Tom is feeling wistful and romantic. With a view like this, it’s a crying shame that he’s here with anyone other than Siobhan right now.

But what can you do. And as substitutes go, Greg isn’t bad (well, not _terrible_ , anyway).

“Your massage therapists will be with you shortly,” Magnus informs them. “Would you like me to close the curtains for you, Sirs?”

“No,” Tom says. “You can leave it like that. Thank you, Magnus.”

The Viking gives him a quick nod, mechanical as ever in his movements.

“Gentlemen, enjoy your massage. And do help yourselves to some of our complimentary refreshments.”

  
  


As soon as he has left the room, Greg loses his mind.

“Look at this view, dude!”

His mouth hangs open as he takes in the spectacular sight.

“Better view from my office,” says Tom. “But sure, yeah.”

While Greg considers the horizon, Tom considers Greg: He doesn’t look quite as ridiculous as first anticipated, having somehow managed to find a bathrobe that fits his megafauna physique and ends just below his knee.

 _He looks... good,_ Tom has to admit. _Like he actually fits in here._

Greg notices the tray sitting on a copper table by the window, laden with champagne flutes and a bowl of chocolate-coated strawberries.

“Are these for us?”

“That’s what he said, isn’t it?” Tom replies, popping one of the red berries into his mouth.

He grabs the flute glasses and hands one of them to his friend.

“So. To what shall we toast, my dear Gregory?”

“Um,” Greg mumbles around a mouthful of strawberries. “I don’t know.”

“Happy birthday to me, then.”

Greg looks like a goldfish.

“Wait- it’s your birthday? For real?”

“Yeah?”

“Oh my god, dude!”

“You didn’t know?”

“No, of course not!” Greg says, shaking his head. “I woulda said happy birthday! I woulda like, gotten you something, man!”

He goes in for a hug again, and this time it’s made even more awkward by the fact that they’re both in bathrobes. But Tom doesn’t make any attempt to stop him; this might be the only birthday hug he’ll get.

“Happy birthday, man,” Greg whispers softly in his ear.

Before Tom really gets a chance to decide how he feels about it all, there’s a knock on the door: Three quick raps, and a split second later it swings open. A pair of smiling, sturdy-looking men walk in, dressed in all white.

“Oh hey!” Greg exclaims, releasing Tom from the embrace. Then he points to him and says, with a wide grin, “It’s his birthday!”

The massage therapists share a look, seeming a bit put off, either due to walking in on two men hugging or due to Greg’s outburst. Probably both. These people don’t give a fuck that it’s his birthday - why would they? What are they gonna do, throw in a birthday handy?

“Well, uh, happy birthday!” says one of the masseurs, visibly perplexed.

Tom can’t see his own reflection, but he knows he is turning beet red. _Jesus Christ, Greg, why do you have_ _to be such a dumb little puppy?_

“So, gentlemen. Are you ready for your hot stone treatment?”

Nodding, Tom sets aside his champagne flute. He removes his robe, kicks off his slippers, and drapes himself over the nearest massage table.

Greg mutters a little “oh” and follows suit.

“Your bottoms stay on, Greg,” Tom says, because he just can’t help himself.

Greg frowns and shoots him a sideways look.

“Yeah, I know that, Tom. Thanks.”

Greg undoes his robe, and Tom sneaks a little peek. _It’s just curiosity,_ he tells himself. _Everyone would want to know what Bigfoot looks like naked, right? Doesn’t mean they wanna_ fuck _Bigfoot._

Much to his surprise, though, Greg doesn’t look very much like Bigfoot under all that. Considerably less hairy, for one.

“Can you even fit your whole body on that table? Aha-ha.”

“Um. Well, my feet are kinda hanging off the end a bit.”

While the massage therapists prepare their oils and stones, Tom tries to get comfortable. The tables don’t have face holes, and he is sort of thankful for that; he hates putting his face into those, for some reason they always make him feel vaguely unsafe. But now Greg is lying with his face turned towards him - looking right at him! - and that’s just all kinds of weird.

And he can’t turn away from him, either, because that would make it apparent that he has given considerable amount of thought to the weirdness of it all.

  
  


“Dude, why didn’t you tell me it was your birthday?” Greg asks, sounding almost hurt.

“I thought you knew. Didn’t you see it on Facebook?”

Now a wry little smile tugs at the corners of Greg’s mouth.

“Tom... I don’t go on Facebook. I haven’t looked at my Facebook in, like, months. People my age don’t really use it?”

“Okay?”

“Like it used to be for us, but now it’s for like... aunts and uncles posting, like, chain emails and minion memes and racist propaganda.”

“Greg, you might as well hold a mirror up to my face and say, look how fucking old you are. Old man. You ambulant fossil.”

“Sorry.”

“Just... no more talking, okay? Just close your eyes and enjoy the massage.”

Greg does what he’s told, finally shutting both his eyes and his mouth. It’s a sweet mercy.

The hot stones are applied and now Tom closes his eyes, too, and tries to ignore the soft little noises of contentment coming from his young friend.

  
  


—

  
  


“What’s the uh, the purpose of this procedure, exactly?”

Greg looks on in confusion as one of the specialists slathers his arm with a grey-green paste and starts wrapping it up in soft cotton bandages.

“It’s to draw out toxins, mainly,” Tom explains. “Some people claim it helps you lose weight but that’s just wishful thinking, if you ask me.”

“It’s like, really warm,” Greg says with a look of wonder on his face. “And it smells nice.”

“That’s the tea tree oil from earlier,” his specialist replies.

Greg smiles at her, and she smiles back. An overwhelming urge to embarrass his friend washes over Tom like a rogue wave.

“I hope you have enough wraps for my friend here?” he asks the specialist. “He looks skinny, I know, but there’s a lot of real estate to cover. Haha.”

“Tom, please...”

“Oh lighten up, Greg.”

The specialists wrap them in cotton, they wrap them in plastic, then they wrap them once more, in a fleece-lined metallic wrap that resembles one of those emergency blankets.

“Tom, I feel like a burrito. I’m very hot.”

“You’re supposed to be hot, Greg. Sweat the toxins out.”

Greg mutters a pained “okay” and the specialists get up to leave the room.

“Gentlemen, we’ll be back in an hour. Enjoy.”

“Thanks!” Tom calls after them.

“An hour? I’m glad I went to the toilet before this.”

“Shhhhh, Greg. Silence.”

Tom closes his eyes. Paired with the scent of tea tree oil still lingering in the air, the low trickle of the rock fountain in the corner of the room sets a nice ambience.

So of course, Greg has to go and ruin it by opening his gob.

“Thanks for taking me here,” he says. “Pretty cool of you to do this for me. Like, it’s not _my_ birthday.”

“Don’t be too grateful, Greg. Shiv ditched me last minute is all, and I had these bookings that couldn’t be rescheduled. Thought I’d just bring you instead, get my money’s worth.”

“Oh.”

He decides not to look at Greg; he can see his crestfallen face in his mind’s eye, and that visual is more than enough for him.

“So she ditched you?” Greg asks. “On your birthday?”

“Yeah.”

“Why, what for?”

“For her dad.”

Greg makes a face.

“That’s... that’s pretty fucked up, man, if you don’t mind me saying.”

He falls quiet for a minute, and Tom hopes Greg doesn’t notice how he is trying to steady his breathing.

“You know,” Greg pipes up again, “I remember booking this for you, actually. Like, weeks and weeks ago.”

“Oh yeah?” Tom drawls, disinterested.

“Yeah, and um. I was thinking like, wow, this looks so nice, I wanna go here sometime... but then I looked at the prices and it’s like, super expensive. And I just thought it would be, you know, kinda reprehensible to um, spend that amount of money for just like, a massage and stuff?”

Tom releases a heavy sigh. Trust Greg the Egg to reduce an outing to this revered institution of traditional wellness practices to _“just like, a massage and stuff.”_

“Well, now you’re here. And I’m paying. So just try and enjoy it, okay?”

“I had no idea it was for your birthday, though?” Greg presses, letting Tom’s hint fly right over his big stupid head. “Like, why are you doing all the planning for your own birthday?”

“What do you mean, Greg?” Tom asks wearily.

“I mean like... isn’t that supposed to be someone else’s job? I mean, it’s your birthday. Isn’t Shiv the one who’s supposed to do all that stuff for you?”

“Greg-”

“Like, if I recall correctly, uh, you were the one who planned everything for _her_ birthday, so-”

“Greg, shut up.”

At that, Greg becomes eerily quiet. Tom finally opens his eyes, chancing a look. His young friend is still staring at him, beseeching yet defiant, with worry in his eyes. Tom finally caves under the weight of his steadfast gaze.

“Look,” he sighs. “Shiv’s kind of a birthday Grinch, okay? She’s not... she’s just not into it.”

“Yeah, but you’re into it. And it’s your birthday.”

“You don’t need to be angry on my behalf, Greg. I’m used to it.”

“You’re used to it?” Greg parrots, his eyebrows shooting towards the sky. “She uh, does this a lot, then? Let’s you, like, plan everything and then ditches you?”

_God, why is he so annoyed?_ Tom asks himself. _Greg doesn’t have a horse in this race, the fuck does he care that I’m being neglected?_

“Like, it just doesn’t seem very-”

“Alright, Dear Prudence,” Tom sighs. “Put down your quill, okay? This isn’t your fight. So just shut up and enjoy the mud wrap that I paid for.”

“Wouldn’t be me, that’s all I’m saying,” Greg mutters.

Once again, Tom tries to still his breath and not look at the fuming Greg burrito to his right. He also tries not to think about Shiv. But for the next hour he is stuck here in this cocoon with nothing to distract him except for Greg, who only seems to want to talk about Tom’s flaccid marriage.

_Lord, grant me strength. This is going to be the longest hour of my life._


	4. WARNING: Pitiful When Wet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg puts his foot in it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is gonna be extremely dialogue-heavy so like. soz ig?? couldnt be helped

“I have to say, uh... I don’t really understand any of these options?”

Bewildered, Greg is leafing through the spa restaurant menu and shaking his head.

“It’s just health food fusion, Greg,” Tom explains. “The treatments are fusion and the food is fusion. That’s the concept. This whole place is fusion.”

“Stop saying fusion,” Greg mutters under his breath. “Like what even is ‘cherimoya’?”

“It’s all delicious, Greg, trust me. Trust _them._ These are Michelin chefs, they know what they’re doing.”

“I hope you’re right...”

“Anyway, you don’t have to understand it. You just have to open your gullet. I paid for the dégustation so that’s what we’re doing, whether you like it or not.”

“The dege-what?”

“The tasting menu, Greg,” Tom replies, starting to lose his patience now. “So all you have to choose is your drink. Okay? Can you do that?”

Now Greg looks apprehensive.

“Is this gonna be, like... like the ortolan thing? Because that wasn’t very delicious, Tom. Like, I’m sorry but that was super gross.”

Tom responds with nought but a withering look, so Greg bows his head and goes back to studying the menu.

  
  
  


“Hello, I’m Samya. I will be your waitress for this afternoon.”

A young lady with freckles and short, curly hair has just materialized at their side, clutching an ipad. Startled and suddenly very self-conscious, Greg tugs at the lapels of his bathrobe, trying to cover himself a bit more.

“Are we ready to order, gentlemen?”

“Yeah, I’ll have a Big Mac, please,” Tom jests. “I didn’t have breakfast so I’m ravenous. Ready for some good, ol’ fashioned meat! Haha! Just kidding.”

Samya smiles politely, a tight-lipped smile that never quite reaches her eyes. Tom turns to Greg.

“So, how ‘bout it huh? You wanna get day drunk with me? Should we go for the full package or?”

“Um, I might not... it’s a bit early for me. Like that glass of champagne earlier kinda made me feel a bit lightheaded and queasy. Maybe after we eat, though?”

Slightly disappointed - and also slightly annoyed that Greg is making him look like an old soak - Tom turns his attention back to the waitress.

“Yeah, I’ll just have the homemade tumeric and ginger kombucha. And some more still water, please. We’re pretty parched aren’t we, Greg?”

Samya quickly takes his order down on her pad. She then turns to Greg, who now looks like he’s being threatened at gunpoint.

“Uhhh... just some sparkling water for me, please?”

“Get him the Voss,” Tom adds.

“Certainly, Sir. And I understand you are doing the tasting menu, correct?”

“Correct. No burgers today, ahaha.”

“Thank you so much,” Greg says, almost like an apology.

He smiles kindly at the waitress and she returns the gesture - a proper smile this time, eye crinkles and all. _This is getting ridiculous,_ Tom’s inner voice decides.

Once Samya is well out of earshot, the viper strikes.

“Thank you sooo much,” Tom parrots, putting on his best Gregory Hirsch impression. “Why do you do that?”

“Do what? Be polite?”

“You’re always smiling at them like you wanna get down on your hands and knees and suck their fucking toes.”

“Tom-!”

“Hey listen,” Tom says, hands raised in defense. “It’s fine if you want to fuck the peasants. All I’m saying is, stop looking so goddamn desperate. It’s not attractive.”

Greg huffs an incredulous laugh, looking absolutely appalled at Tom’s accusation.

“I’m not trying to- I just like being nice to the staff, is all!”

“I like being nice to the staff, too. Everybody likes being nice to the staff. But you’re _too_ nice.”

“Sounds like someone’s jealous,” Greg mutters under his breath.

“What’s that?” Tom asks.

“Nothing.”

  
  


—

“This is like... so fucking choice.”

“It’s called being stupidly rich, Gregory.”

They are lounging on the sunken steps of the roman bath on the top floor, champagne flutes in hand. Peering up at the blue sky through the glass ceiling, now with food in his belly at last, Tom finally feels at ease.

“So, how did you enjoy the health nut hipster cuisine?”

“It was good, actually, yeah,” Greg smiles. “I’m not that, uh, well versed in vegan stuff... or gluten free stuff... but yeah. Much better than the ortolan.”

“Good.”

“It was a bit sparse, though, I gotta say. Like, I could eat more.”

“Oh I’m sure you could!” Tom laughs, grabbing the bottle of organic champagne from the cooler. “Let’s get fucked up, buddy.”

Greg accepts the top-up, looking somewhat uncertain.

“Can’t say I really understand the point of like, detoxing with that mud wrap when we’re about to just get all, uh, toxined up again. Seems like... a bit of a breach of their business model? Serving alcohol?”

“Well, you know,” Tom shrugs, refilling his own glass. “Guess they figured they should at least have it on offer.”

With a subtle nod he directs Greg’s attention to the group of older men congregated at the other end of the pool, chatting animatedly among themselves.

“Some of the old guard here, they’ve been coming here for years,” he explains. “Back when it was just a regular hotel pool up here. They’d be rioting down there on the street if they couldn’t get a glass while they’re soaking.”

Greg hums in understanding.

“As long as it’s not gold leaf vodka, I guess.”

Greg looks serene in the green water, head tilted back with his eyes closed, cheeks flushed from the heat, droplets of water slowly dripping from his dark locks. _He looks handsome like that._ Tom allows himself this one indulgent thought, as it is his birthday. _The new haircut really suits him, now that it’s grown out a bit. He almost looks like a real human being._

Tom continues to quietly study his friend, until Greg starts cracking a little smile.

“What’re you grinning about, Mona Lisa?” Tom asks. 

“It’s nothing.”

“Tell me, dickcheese,” Tom demands, flicking water in his face.

“No, I don’t wanna say...”

“Well, now I simply _must_ know, Gregory.”

Greg turns to look at him.

“It’s selfish,” he says, sounding a bit embarrassed.

“Tell me,” Tom commands.

Sighing, Greg averts his eyes.

“I just- I’m starting to feel kinda... kinda happy that Shiv ditched you today.”

It’s like a gut punch. Like a solid jab to the small intestine.

And he must look like he’s been punched, too, because Greg’s blue eyes now become desperately apologetic.

“I’m sorry, Tom, I didn’t mean-“

Tom heaves himself up from the pool and trudges up the stairs, water rushing down from his swim shorts and cascading down his legs.

“Tom,” Greg calls out, trying to get up to go after him. “Wait.”

Tom whirls around and levels a threatening index finger at him.

“Don’t. Fucking. Follow me.”

Throwing on his robe, he stomps off, ignoring the scandalized looks from all the other spa patrons.

  
  


—

  
  


“Um. Tom. What uh, what are you...?”

Greg looks horrified as he steps into the arid air of the sauna, met with the sight of Tom whipping himself on the back with a bundle of leafy birch branches.

“I thought I told you not to fucking follow me.”

Greg looks sheepish. And a bit drunk.

“I know. But I waited a bit... y’know, to give you some space. And then I drank all the champagne. Like, to cheer myself up? And I get um, pretty stupid and forgetful when I drink, so...”

“You’re pretty stupid and forgetful when you don’t drink,” Tom snipes, still whacking himself on the back with the Nordic torture device.

Timid and slow, Greg moves forward, nodding awkwardly at the one other guy sitting in the sauna, a rotund and red-faced elderly gentleman who looks to be half asleep.

“May I sit?” Greg asks of Tom, who only momentarily stops his self-flagellation to shrug at him with a blank stare on his face.

“Sure. Do whatever.”

Greg sits up there with him, watching him flog himself. They grimace in unison with every whack, Tom in pain and Greg in sympathy.

“So... whipping, huh?”

“It’s called birching.”

Greg looks thoughtful for a moment. Then he turns his back to Tom and pulls his bathrobe down, baring his back.

“Do me next.”

“ _Excuse me?_ ”

“Do me,” Greg chirps again. “Whip me!”

That seems to coax a little smile out of Tom, at long last.

“Ah, I’m not gonna do that, Greg.”

“Do it,” Greg says, turning his back to Tom as an invitation. “Punish me, I deserve it. Let me have the switch.”

“Greg-!” Tom laughs.

  
  


The threat of a potential gay S&M show about to unfold seems to have lit a fire under the ass of the round old man in the corner; he reads this as his cue to vacate the premises, moving at a speed far greater than what would probably be deemed safe for a man of his advanced years.

When they’re finally alone, Greg relaxes. He sighs, looking down at his hands, starts picking at his fingernails.

“I feel bad, you know?” he mumbles.

Tom clicks his tongue.

“Yeah.”

“I shouldn’t have said what I said. And I shouldn’t have tried talking to you about Shiv all day, either. That was stupid. You obviously, like, don’t wanna talk about her, so... it’s your birthday. You get to choose what we talk about.”

Tom is thankful that Greg isn’t looking directly at him in this moment, lest he see the tears building in his eyes.

“Okay, Greg,” he replies, voice thick with emotion.

“But I did mean it, you know? Just not like that. I didn’t mean to phrase it that way, it was insensitive. All I meant was like... I really like it when you take me out. And stuff.”

“Well, like I said, Greg, you’re just a placeholder for today. So don’t get too comfortable.”

“I know... but, y’know, still. I like spending time with you.”

Well, shit. He hadn’t expected that. “I like it when you spend money on me,” sure. Maybe even “I like it when you’re taking me out and showing me how to be rich.” But never “I like spending time with you.” That’s unprecedented.

_I like spending time with you, too, Greg. I like it a lot - maybe a bit too much, sometimes. It scares the hell out of me, actually._

The unspoken sentiment dances upon his tongue, but he swallows it down like acid reflux.

Suddenly - perhaps because of the lightheadedness brought on by the alcohol and the heat and the whipping - Tom is gripped by an unnatural need to share:

“Sometimes I think...”

He trails off for a moment, in order to try and organize his scattered thoughts.

“I think... maybe it was stupid, getting together with someone so fucking far out of my league.”

Greg turns to look at him with a quizzical frown.

“It just kind of happened,” Tom continues. “I never thought, back then... I never felt _unworthy_ , you know? It was different when I first met her. She was kind of a mess.”

Greg is all ears now, wide-eyed, waiting for him to elaborate. Tom takes a deep breath, and he presses on.

“I really thought I could have it all, with her. But she’s not- it’s not really what I’d expected.”

Greg scoots closer.

“How do you mean?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” Tom replies, cringing at his own inability to form a single coherent thought.

_God, why is this so hard?_

“I guess... I guess I just had this idea about us in my head.”

“Like?”

“Like a domestic fantasy, I guess? Like, not that she would... cook or clean for me or anything like that, just... just that we would be a team, you know? Look after each other? And want the same things? And be... I don’t know. Equals, I guess.”

_What was it Logan had said? “You’ve married a man fathoms below you.”_

Greg’s face takes on a mournful look.

“I don’t think that’s too much to ask, Tom,” he says. “Isn’t that just like... basic relationship stuff? Isn’t that what everyone is looking for?”

_God, stop being so fucking nice. Dickhead._

“I guess,” Tom says, close to tears now. “But apparently it’s not, you know? And I feel unworthy of her, Greg. I feel unworthy and... a-and I feel like a complete fucking fraud.”

“Hey, don’t say that,” Greg says.

Forgetting himself, he moves towards Tom as if he wants to reach out and touch him, but he stops before he gets that far.

“Oh come on, Greg. I know you’re not a complete fucking nimrod, so please don’t act like it.”

Greg blinks at him, lips pursed, chewing the inside of his cheek - kind of like how Shiv does sometimes, whenever she’s in a spot. _Must be the only bit of family resemblance,_ Tom thinks. The two of them might well be blood, but if he were to create a Venn diagram of the Roys, Greg and Shiv’s circles would just barely be touching.

Right now, that is an oddly comforting thought.

“No, my friend,” Tom sighs, resting his head against the wood panel. “Shiv is just... on a different planet. From another galaxy.”

“Uh, yeah she is,” Greg cuts in. “But like, not in a good way. You know she stole my last twenty, when I was homeless and starving?”

“She what?” Tom asks, cocking an eyebrow at him.

“Yeah, that day in the hospital! She was like, have you got some cash? And I was like, just my last 20. And she was like, cool, and she just kinda like, snatches it outta my hand!”

Tom breaks into laughter, a great big roaring laugh that soon turns into an unstoppable hiccuping, tears flowing from his eyes. And Greg laughs with him, now infected with the giggles.

“She didn’t even give me back my change, Tom!”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Greg,” Tom chuckles, wiping tears from his eyes. “I didn’t know my wife was such a prick.”

“Yeah well, now you know.”

“Yeah.”

Suddenly the words ‘agricultural walk’ spring to mind, and Tom’s laughing fit finally subsides. He sinks back against the wall with a sigh.

“Fuck me... you know, we were actually talking about going out of town. Make a long weekend of it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. But then Shiv said she wanted to stay in town in case anything were to happen with her Dad, so... and I mean, fair enough, given everything that’s happened.”

“Sure.”

“And then lo and behold, she was called away.”

“Has something happened?” Greg asks, worry writ large on his face. “To Logan?”

“Oh yeah, no, God. It was just a business thing today. Otherwise I wouldn’t have been here with you right now... I would’ve been there, for her, ya know?”

“Oh. Good. Yeah.”

Greg lets himself relax against the wood panel wall.

“God, it’s hot in here.”

“It’s good for ya, buddy.”

“Sure.”

A comfortable silence finally descends, and for a few precious minutes Tom is able to just sit and enjoy the heat, watching his breathing. A brief moment of zen.

“Maybe...” Greg tries, his tone softer and more tentative now. “Maybe instead of thinking like, that you’re out of Shiv’s league or whatever... maybe um. Maybe you should think more like, that she’s kinda out of your league?”

Tom just scoffs at him.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Greg.”

“Alright, well okay, I mean. How about this. Maybe you shoulda gone for... perhaps, say, someone more like yourself? Someone who gives as much of themselves as you do? You know?”

Tom can’t do much more than just nod and try to keep another one of his meltdowns at bay. So he just lets Greg ramble on, praying to God he doesn’t strike any particularly sensitive nerves.

“Because like, you give so much of yourself. To her, like I can see that. Too bad she can’t see it- or like, that she can’t... I dunno, like. She doesn’t seem to know how to accept affection, or whatever? I guess?”

_Look at him. He is trying so hard to make sense, bless his heart._

Greg is right, though, and that’s the kicker; every word out of his mouth cuts like a knife, but Tom is powerless to stop it. Or maybe he _wants_ to be cut, maybe he wants Greg to slash him open, just gut him from crotch to sternum and take a look inside. 

_If I let him, will he like what he sees?_

“It’s like... it’s like sincerity is Kryptonite to her, or- or something. I don’t know, man. I guess it’s understandable? Kendall’s kind of the same, like I don’t think he knows what a fucking hug is... I mean, they’re all like that, really. Except Connor, maybe? Anyway. My relatives are all pretty fucked up, if you ask me.”

Greg stops for a beat and looks over at Tom, clearly waiting for him to throw in his two cents. But he eventually realizes he won’t be getting an answer.

”Yeah no, we should stop talking about them,” he says, turning to Tom with a sheepish half-smile. “Not a great birthday topic, right? It’s bumming us both out, I think.”

“Yeah,” Tom manages.

“I guess I just wanted to say that I think...” Greg hesitates for a moment, looking down at his hands again. “Like, I think anyone would be lucky to have you for a husband and Shiv, uh, she should realize that. Like, she should treat you better.”  
  


_Fuck. Don’t say shit like that. I can’t take it._

Greg picks up the bundle of branches.

“So. What’s this birching thing about, huh?”

“Oh, that. It’s like... a Finnish thing, I think. I don’t know what it’s supposed to do, exactly. But old Finnish men have been doing it for ages, so it’s gotta be doing something, I guess.”

“Expelling demons?” Greg jokes.

“Hah. Maybe.” Tom smiles. “Apparently they go ice bathing too, in the frozen lake. They ice bathe and they sit around in the sauna drinking vodka and whip themselves until they puke.”

“Wow, okay!” Greg laughs. “Wild!”

At that, Tom suddenly has a thought.

“They do have a refrigerated pool here, if you wanna try? Not quite like ice bathing, but close enough.” 

“Uuuuuhhhh.” Greg is looking like his brain is about to short circuit. “How cold is it, though?”

“Pretty fucking cold! It feels like being stabbed by a thousand tiny knives, haha! You wanna try it?”

Greg squirms.

“Um, well I guess you could push me in, if you want? That could like, be the punishment for putting my foot in it, maybe?”

Tom laughs again, clapping his young friend on the back.

“Alright, Gregory. Let’s go punish you.”

  
  


—

  
  


“You ready?”

“Hahaa... not really.”

They are all alone by the cold pool. Greg stands at the edge, staring into the water, hesitant and shivering in the chilly room.

“Like, frankly I’m feeling a, uh, not entirely negligible amount of um, trepidation about this, Tom. Y’know, now that I’m here.”

He hugs himself, rubbing his upper arms to generate some heat, however fleeting.

“Like, I can _feel_ how cold it is from over here, dude.”

“Oh, come off it, Greg. It’s just a little dip! You said you wanted to.”

“Yeaah,” Greg says, grimacing, “but now that I’m here and reality has set in, like-“

“Oh, so you’re not that repentant, then.”

Greg sends a pleading look over his shoulder at Tom.

“C’mon. I’ve got your nice thick bathrobe right here, you can climb out and grab it at anytime.”

“What if, like, my brain freezes and I forget how to swim? Or breathe?”

“This is the punishment we agreed on, remember?”

“Um, I think I would prefer the switch, to be perfectly honest. Or like, a nice kick in the teeth, maybe?”

Tom laughs.

“Chickenshit. Back in Minnesota, me and the boys, we used to do this every New Years Eve. Except there the water was, you know, actually frozen. So you’re basically a chickenshit twice over. Chickenshit squared.”

“Just gimme like, a minute to psyche myself up for it, Tom. Please.”

“You’ve had a minute, and more than that.”

“What if I get hypothermia, though?”

“I won’t let it come to that, Greg,” Tom sighs. “I’ll look after you, okay?”

Greg makes a pathetic little noise at the back of his throat.

“And here I thought you were supposed to be Canadian. Tut-tut.”

“Yeah, but-”

“In ya go!” Tom shouts, giving Greg a good shove.

“Ah-! No-“

Greg flails helplessly at the edge for a split second, his long limbs all akimbo, before the brutal and unforgiving force of gravity finally pulls him into that ice cold pool of pain. A massive splash ensues, followed by a spray of cold water hitting Tom right in the face.

The noise that Greg makes as he resurfaces is nothing short of otherworldly, a sort of inhaled half-roar-half-shriek that wouldn’t be out of place in a Korean horror movie. And then:

_“FUCK!!!”_

He swallows water and starts dog paddling, his panicked brain apparently having forgotten how to swim altogether. Tom doubles over with laughter.

“Help, help, help me..!” Greg calls out, hands scrambling at the side of the pool, trying to hoist himself up and out of this miniature Arctic Ocean.

Tom comes to his aid, grabbing his arm and dragging him out of harm's way. Uncoordinated and unbalanced, Greg almost falls back into the pool again, but luckily Tom catches and steadies him. Then he throws Greg’s bathrobe over his bony shoulders. Curling in on himself, Greg moves closer to Tom, trying to huddle for warmth. 

“Ah, f-f-f-fuck-k-k-k,” he says through clattering teeth. “Y-you fuh-fuuuuucking d-dickhead!”

“Oh, such theatrics,” Tom huffs. “It wasn’t that bad, was it?”

“Y-you wanna b-bet?” Greg asks. “Y-you weren’t wrong ab-bout the... th-th-thousand knives.”

Tom shakes his head at him and rubs his hands over his back, trying to get him warmed up again quick. With a shudder, Greg lets his head drop down onto Tom’s shoulder. There, he whimpers and sighs and quivers against Tom’s warm body.

Just some months ago, Tom would’ve never allowed this kind of familiarity from his assistant. But now... well, things have shifted a bit to the left lately, haven’t they? Greg’s really no longer the hapless kid that had waltzed into Logan’s eightieth birthday bash with nought but twenty bucks and a dream, and Tom certainly isn’t the same man he’d been at that party either. They’ve changed, and the cell structure of their relationship has rearranged completely.

“Y-you... you should go in, Tom,” Greg says, stuttering a bit less now. “If you d-don’t think it’s that big a deal.”

“Hm. I think I’ll pass.”

Greg pulls back to look at Tom, only a few inches from his face.

“You wanna maybe, um, go back to the sauna, then? Like, if you’re not going in? I’m pretty cold, Tom.”

Dripping wet and pathetic, he looks like a drowned kitten. His eyes are full of woe and his quivering bottom lip is starting to turn purple. The kid looks like he needs a warning sign: ‘Pitiful When Wet.’

An almost violent instinct to protect surges through Tom like an electric current. _God, how can a grown man of six foot seven look so fucking small?_

The proximity in of itself is now becoming far too much. And Greg’s sad blue eyes and his pouty lips, they seem to be doing something to him...

_Oh no. Oooooh no._

“You know what?” Tom says, suddenly pushing Greg away and holding him at arms’ length. “I think I will go in, actually!”

Before Greg’s sluggish brain has time to compute, Tom has tossed his own bathrobe to the side and thrown himself into the water - that mercifully cold, bonerkilling water.

—

“Oh man, I tell ya, Greg... that ice bath really switched my gears!”

Strolling out the front doors of the Beauford Hotel, all warmed up from the sauna and squeaky clean after a hot shower, Tom is feeling refreshed and alive and absolutely invincible.

“Yeah, it was uh... it sure was something!” Greg nods.

Tom claps his hands together.

“I feel like I could punch a tiger right in the clit! Haha! Woo!”

They can see Tom’s driver pulling up to the sidewalk just as they’re stepping off the red carpet and onto the street. Tom hops over to the car and opens one of its doors for his friend.

Greg looks confused.

“Oh, I was just gonna catch an Uber back to my pl-”

“An Uber?” Tom’s face scrunches up with disdain. “No, we’ll drive you home. Of course we will. Come on, hop in.”

Greg clambers into the backseat with his bag of clothes, awkward as ever as he tries to fit his long legs in behind the driver’s seat. He greets the driver with a smile and a lazy peace sign.

“Hey, Fred, what’s up.”

“Hiya, Greg,” the driver replies. “You need some more leg room there? I can pull the seat forward.”

“Oh no need, man, I’m good,” Greg replies, his knees almost up to his chin.

Tom rolls his eyes and closes the door for him, going up around the side with his odd little jog.

“Afternoon, Fred,” he beams.

“Afternoon, Mr. Wambsgans.”

It feels a bit off, his driver calling him by his last name, when Greg ‘Champion of the Working Man’ Hirsch is in the backseat with him. So he decides to try something new:

“Please, Fred, we’ve known each other for years. For the last time, call me Tom.”

“Oh, well... I thought you specifically asked me to call you Mr. Wambs-“

“Haha!” Tom barks, clapping him on the shoulder. “Funny guy, funny guy.”

  
  


_God. Why am I like this._

“Okay... _Tom,_ _”_ Fred starts, hesitant. “Where to?”

Tom turns to Greg, looking at him expectantly as his friend struggles with his seatbelt.

“Oh. Tribeca? Uh, sixty-seven Franklin Street.”

“Right away,” Fred replies, pulling out from the sidewalk and onto the street.

  
  


“You’re still liking it there, in the ol’ condominium?”

Tom is asking in part because he’s a little bit jealous. It’s a gorgeous duplex, wide open space as far as the eye can see. Four bathrooms. Madness!

“Yeah, it’s super nice. Kendall’s being really cool to let me crash there.”

_Of course. Special K._ Was only a matter of time before his name came up. The two of them have been like peas and fucking carrots lately, walking around looking stupid next to each other; Greg makes Ken look tiny, and Ken makes Greg look like one of those tree people from Lord of the Rings. They are a preposterous pairing, really.

 _Greg and I, we look normal next to each other,_ Tom thinks to himself. _Well, I look normal, and Greg looks slightly less like an overgrown sideshow freak next to me._

He has to wonder what the deal is with the two of them, anyway. Are they up to something? Cooking something up together? Kendall’s been weird ever since he came back from Iceland - well, ever since the wedding, really.

The thought of Greg being a part of something and not letting Tom in on it... it’s mildly devastating, truth be told.

  
  


As they’re driving through Chinatown, Tom leans in to conspire.

“You’re coming to dinner with me tonight.”

“I am?”

“Yeah, I mean I had the whole day planned out for me and Shiv. You oughta know, you’re the one who booked it.”

His eyes narrow at Greg.

“Why, do you have plans of your own?”

“No, just... um, just takeout and a movie.”

“Well now you have fine dining and the opera,” Tom declares. He checks his watch. “We’ll pick you up in an hour from now, how does that sound?”

“Uh, ok-okay,” Greg nods.

“Here we are, Sir,” Fred says as he pulls over on Greg’s street.

Tom levies a sideways grin at his friend, eyes twinkling.

“So. It’s a date, then.”

“Heh, yeah.”

Greg looks a little red about the face as he opens the door and swings his legs out the side.

“Don’t forget your bag now.”

“Shit, thanks.”

He bends down and reaches for the lumpy bag laying on the floor of the car. Tom takes this as an opportunity to grab him by the wrist.

“Oh, and Greg?”

“Mhm?”

“Wear something sexy. A sleek suit. Black.”

“Um. Okay?” Greg laughs nervously, his eyes suddenly wide and uncertain.

“I want you here at five sharp. Don’t be late again.”

Greg nods, and Tom finally lets go of his arm.

“See you soon, Greg.”

“Alright, uh. Later.”

Greg closes the car door carefully and waves goodbye, trotting off down the sidewalk with that peculiar, striding gait of his. Tom watches him go, and a certain ache blossoms in his chest. The regret is almost instantaneous.

 _Fuck, maybe this is a bad idea,_ Tom worries. It could be a tragic misstep, indulging in this. _Should I just call him and cancel?_

But he can feel a strange and powerful pull, this mounting need to keep Greg around - to reel him in before Kendall gets his greedy tentacles around his ankles and pulls him down into the inky depths of his own depraved and sad existence. And that’s a much stronger force of nature than Tom’s crumbling willpower.

“Just home then, Mr. Wambsgans?” Fred asks, punching a hole in the projection screen of his daydreaming.

“Oh... yeah. Yes.”

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> these chapters are just getting progressively longer and longer huh!


	5. A Little Mix-Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg fucks up (again)

Greg is late again. Very late. Of course he is.

_Or maybe he’s not coming at all,_ says the nasty little shame goblin that lives in Tom’s head. _You’ve scared him off now, haven’t you, you fucking creep. You dirty old man. “Wear something sexy.” Who even says that to their employee?_

It isn’t as if he had intended it as any sort of come-on; he simply wanted to avoid being seen at the opera with someone looking like a used car salesman - which, frankly, was always a potentiality with Greg. But unfortunately, like most things coming out of Tom’s mouth, it had come out sounding like lawsuit ammunition.

Tom plays the interaction over and over again in his head, cringing at the mental image of Greg’s confounded face.

 _He’s not coming,_ says the goblin. _He’s fled the country. Caught the next flight home to Canada, just to get away from you._

“Shut up,” Tom mutters under his breath.

“Sir?”

He catches Fred’s eye in the rear view mirror.

“Oh, I was just... clearing my throat.”

  
  


They are parked by the curb on Franklin Street, waiting for Greg to finally grace them with his presence.

Tom’s stomach is in a knot. What if he really had scared him off, though? Greg’s been subjected to a lot of unacceptable behavior from him in the past, and normally he’s just brushed it off and moved on. The kid is resilient. But even he must have his limits, right?

Either way it’s probably a piss poor idea, seeking out more of Greg’s company after what had transpired by the cold pool. But the prospect of celebrating the rest of his birthday at home on his sofa with Mondale, _My Best Friend’s Wedding_ and a bucket of ice cream is just tragic enough that he was willing to take the risk of another unfortunate hard-on.

It’s now twenty past five. He is just about to tell his driver to take him to the restaurant - where he will be taking his birthday dinner in solitude, it seems - when Fred suddenly looks up and says,

“There he is.”

Tom is now on high alert, his spine straight as a meerkat’s.

“Huh? Where?”

“Behind you, Sir.”

Tom turns, and through the rear window he spots a lanky young gentleman coming up the street, walking briskly over the crosswalk. He is clad in a form-fitting suit and an elegant double breasted overcoat, a sleek ensemble, all-black aside from his white button-down. A classic, understated look.

At first, Tom doesn’t recognize him at all; surely that can’t be his Greg. This guy is far too well dressed!

“Hey buddy!” Tom calls out as he steps out of his car to greet his dinner date.

“Hey hey,” Greg says, a touch out of breath. “Sorry I’m late, again... I just had to get you these.”

He reaches into the large paper bag he’s been carrying and produces a bouquet of white and peach lilies.

“Greg-!”

“I didn’t know what to get you on such short notice but, um. You like, strike me as a flower guy?”

Greg is right on the money with that assessment, but Tom is not about to tell him that. He simply accepts the bouquet, appraising the flowers with a keen eye. They’re good lilies; crisp and fresh, well-trimmed, and surrounded by tuberoses and leafy greenery in a tasteful arrangement.

“I also, uh, didn’t know which flowers you prefer, so I just asked for a bouquet that says like, happy birthday! Apparently um, lilies are the thing.”

Tom has got roughly a million things in his heart right now, but every single one of them are simply too mushy to say out loud. He settles instead for one of his little trademark Wambsgans jabs.

“Flowers, Gregory? If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were trying to woo me.”

“No...” Greg smiles and looks away, embarrassed. He tries to tuck one of his newly-shorn locks behind his ear. “Hey, there’s um. There’s a card, too.”

“Oh, you’re a sly dog,” Tom teases while he searches for the card hidden in the wrapper. “I am a married man now, don’t ya know?”

It’s a minimalist card, peach colored and debossed with a small, stylized rose. On the inside, Greg’s damn near indecipherable scrawl reads:

_Dear Tom,_

_Happy birthday! I don’t know how old you’re turning this year but I hope you have a good one._

_Thanks for being my friend,_

_\- Greg_

For a hot second, Tom is a little bit overcome with emotion. He packs it in pretty quickly, however, turning to his friend with a broad grin and hoping that his eyes don’t look too shiny.

“Thanks, Greg!”

“You’re welcome, man.”

“Do you wanna-?” Tom gestures to the car.

“Oh yeah!”

Greg gets his spindly legs inside the car and closes the door. While he struggles with his seatbelt, Tom takes the free air time as an opportunity to give him a backhanded compliment.

“You clean up nicely,” he tells him while he fastens his own seatbelt. “I see you’ve come a long way since your days of wearing deck shoes to work and shopping for suits at The Big & Tall Store.”

_...Sexy enough for ya?_ the shame goblin asks.

“Oh, yeah,” Greg blushes. “Well, Kendall gave me the number for his tailor, so I like... kinda treated myself, I guess. I was just waiting for a special occasion to wear it.”

_Kendall’s tailor, huh?_

A pang of fear hits him right in the stomach. Greg is taking to this new lifestyle a bit too easily these days, it seems. He’s coming into his own too quickly for Tom’s liking. It’s not just the clothes, it’s everything; the social stuff, the professional stuff, the fucking wines that he drinks now... suddenly it dawns on Tom that one of these days, Greg might just surpass him. He might wake up one day and find that his protégée has bested him in every way.

One day Greg will no longer need him. And what then? What then _?_

But at least there is this: He’d been waiting for a special occasion to wear his new suit, and he chose today. So perhaps all is not lost.

  
  


_—_

  
  


“Here we are, Mr. Wambs- Tom.”

“Thank you, Fred. Take these flowers back to my house, will ya? Maryna’s there today, she’ll let you in.”

“Of course.”

“I’ll call on you later.”

“Yes, Sir.”

  
  


They’ve gotten through the afternoon rush in Midtown more or less unscathed, and are very early to dinner. It’s a bit gauche, really, showing up far too early for a booking, but Tom is just so excited to have Greg taste all the delicacies that this new wave Japanese restaurant has to offer. He bets Greg has never so much as _looked_ at a sea urchin before.

Tom walks up to the striking middle-aged hostess with a bit of a swagger. He’s feeling confident now, even if it’s just his gawky assistant on his arm instead of his rich, sexy wife.

“Wambsgans, party of two, for six.”

The hostess nods and scans her reservations, lips pursed as she drags her perfectly manicured index finger down the list of names.

“We’re early birds, I know,” Tom adds with a grin that he hopes is dashing. “But we’re not opposed to waiting at the bar with a cocktail while they prepare our table, aheheh.”

The hostess looks perplexed.

“I’m sorry, Sir, I... can’t seem to find you anywhere on our list.”

Tom blinks at her like an owl.

“What? Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” she nods.

“It’s Wambsgans,” Tom says, panic setting in. “W-A-M-B-“

“Sir, you are not anywhere on this list.”

“What about Roy?” he asks.

The hostess looks back at her list and apologetically shakes her head.

“I have no Roy here either, I’m sorry.”

Tom can feel the heat rising in his cheeks; people are starting to file in behind them, witnesses to his shame. Mortifying.

And did she really not pick up on that nuclear namedrop? Any restaurant hostess worth her salt would’ve cleared the VIP room for them at the very mention of the name Roy... although, to be fair, that only seems to really work when you’re actually a Roy.

_Goddammit. If Shiv was here now, we could’ve just walked right in._

“What about Hirsch?” Greg pipes up from the back. “Do you have a Hirsch?”

Tom turns to look at him.

“I mean, I might have put my own name in by mistake,” Greg explains.

“Greeeeeg..?” Tom drawls, realization finally dawning.

“No Hirsch here, either,” the hostess replies. “I’m very sorry... look, gentlemen, I’ll try and sort something out for you in just a moment, but I really do have to help our other guests-“

The hostess starts helping the new arrivals, and Tom descends upon his assistant.

“Did you...” he starts, and his soft voice belies how fucking furious he is. “Did you _fuck up_ our booking, Greg?”

“I uh, I dunno,” Greg stammers, frantically looking through the inbox on his phone for the email confirmation. “I’m trynna... find it... oh, here it is.”

His face goes a whiter shade of pale.

“Greg.”

“It, um- it would appear I may have, uh. Gotten the dates wrong? A bit?”

“So help me God, Gregory-”

“It’s just, I always get so confused about the whole month and day thing? Like shouldn’t it be day first, and then the month? Like, logically speaking?”

“So you booked it for a different month, then? Goddammit, Greg!”

“I’m sorry, Tom-!”

“Gentlemen?” the hostess pipes up. “Please, could you perhaps move the argument outside? We do try to maintain a somewhat ambient mood for our diners here at Kure Kure.”

Greg quickly apologizes to the waitress for them both, ushering Tom out the door with a gentle hand on his shoulder that is promptly shrugged off.

“Fuck, Greg!” Tom shouts, once they’ve stepped out onto the street and he can finally use his outside voice. “That was my birthday dinner!”

Greg looks like a kicked dog.

“Maybe we could, like, go back inside and, um, see if they have a free table in a little while?”

“It doesn’t work like that here, Greg!” Tom yells, throwing his arms out. “They’re reservation only!”

“Really? That doesn’t seem like a very good business model.”

“Fuck!”

Greg looks on anxiously as Tom paces up and down the street, at a loss for what to do.

“Hey, hey, Tom.” He approaches him slowly, palms open. “It’s... let’s just find somewhere else, okay? It’s cool.”

“It’s cool?!”

“Tom-”

“Where would we go? Huh?” Tom is close to tears now. “It’s the preekend, Greg! All the other good restaurants around here are gonna be full! We’ll have to wait hours for a table, and we have to be at the opera before eight!”

“Oh...”

“We don’t have time for this, Greg!”

Frowning, Greg looks down at his watch.

Tom can tell the rusty gears in his head are grinding now, he’s got that weird look in his eyes.

“I know a place.”

_Oh no._

“Greg-“

“It’s just around the corner-“

“Greg, _no..._ ”

  
  


—

  
  


“Hi, and welcome to the California Pizza Kitchen! My name is Charlie, I’ll be your waiter. Can I start you off with some refreshments?”

The peppy, diminutive waiter looks at them expectantly.

“Oh, uh... could I just have a, like a root beer?”

“Sure. And for you, Sir?”

Greg looks over at his boss, waiting for him to say something. But Tom is a pillar of salt, staring directly at him with the same tired, stoic expression that he’s been holding for the past five minutes. He is unmoving and unmoved.

“Um, just a water for him, I think.” Greg smiles awkwardly at the waiter. “Thank you.”

“Cool, do you guys want a starter or anything..?”

Greg shoots a wary look at Tom.

“Uh, no I think we’re good.”

“Alright, I’ll be right back with your drinks.”

Off he goes, and Greg lets out a deep breath.

“Look, this one’s obviously on me, okay? I mean, you shouldn’t have to pay for this... but it’s pretty good, though, for like a chain restaurant! You should definitely try the linguini.”

Tom is still motionless, the eyes narrowing in silent judgement being the only movement betraying the fact that he’s not, in fact, a wax figure.

“Good thing we got a table so quickly, huh?” Greg tries. “On a Thursday evening? Now we can still make it to the opera on time.”

He attempts a wry little smile, but it just comes out as a grimace.

  
Tom looks over at a nearby table, where a group of zillennials are laughing raucously over a pizza. _How can there be such joy in such a miserable place?_ Tom wonders.

After a few very long minutes, chipper Charlie returns with their drinks.

“You guys ready t-?”

“I’ll have what he’s having,” Tom interrupts, deadpan.

Greg turns toward the waiter, but his eyes stay locked on Tom - like he’s worried his hangry boss is gonna leap across the table in a violent rage and kick his teeth in.

“Uhhhh yeah I’ll have the cajun chicken linguini, please?”

“So that’s two cajun chicken linguini, then,” Charlie confirms. “Coming right up.”

Off Charlie goes again, but this time not without shooting them a look of concern over his shoulder; he seems to have finally had his impeccably curated customer service persona shaken by the bizarre and hostile energy radiating from their table.

Greg slumps back in his chair with a sigh.

“Look, Tom, I’m really sorry I fucked everything up. I just- when I booked that reservation, I was kinda distracted... I mean, shit’s just been like, a lot lately? You know? With work in general and then um,” and he leans in to whisper, “the whole Cruises thing? And the shooting? Pantsil? Boar on the floor, like..?”

Tom can see what he’s doing, he can see the puppy eyes being activated. There is an unnamed emotion welling up inside of him - much like when they’d been boars on the floor and Greg had whispered a desperate “Please” in his ear - but he won’t fucking fall for it this time. No way.

“And then, like... you pelting me with those bottles, that was pretty... pretty fucked up, too. I mean, I’ve been a little bit shaken since then, if I’m being honest.”

_Fuck. Okay yeah, I am falling for it._

“Yeah, Greg,” Tom says, cringing at the memory. “You don’t need to remind me.”

If there is any event from Tom’s life that he would like to just take a giant eraser to and wipe from history altogether, it’s how he’d acted that day in the so-called safe room.

After the wedding, and certainly after playing Boar on the Floor in Hungary, Tom had already been fraying at the edges. At that point, his assistant had really been the only constant, reliable thing in his life. And then Greg had decided to land the final blow - “a business open relationship,” he’d said. He had actually chosen those exact words.

With hindsight, Tom isn’t one bit surprised that he’d snapped. But it was the _way_ he’d snapped that had surprised him; immediately after, when he’d finally worn himself out and he could see the physical evidence of his unbridled wrath in the water bottles on the floor and the horrified look on Greg’s face, he had felt like a real piece of shit. A piece of shit, and a fool to boot - an animal, out of control and dangerous. Embarrassing, really. That man-beast was not at all representative of who Tom really is... or at least, not who he’d thought he was. Not who he wants to be.

That same night, Tom had been lying awake in bed for hours, wondering why he’d gone ballistic. Perhaps it was the stress of their situation, with the shooting and all. He never used to be an angry person, or a violent person. But something about the threat of Greg’s departure had scared him shitless, and the need to keep him close had overridden all good sense.

It’s a worrying thought; that while Tom wasn’t looking, Greg had somehow made his way into his heart. Snuck in through the backdoor and claimed squatter’s rights, the bastard had. Burrowed his way in there like a fucking tick and taken up residence permanently.

Perhaps he should have known when he covered for Greg and his stupid runny mouth back in Hungary.

A silence has fallen over their table like a funeral shroud, and it stays there until they finally - _mercifully -_ receive their meal.

“Here you are, gentlemen,” says Charlie as he puts down their plates. “Now, can I get you anything else?”

Greg shakes his head.

“No, thank you.”

“Okay guys, enjoy!”

_Not fucking likely, Charlie._

Tom lays into his pasta, earning him a curious look from Greg.

“What? I’m starving.”

“Do you like it?” Greg asks, childlike hopefulness pouring out of both his mouth and his eyes.

 _It’s not cute,_ Tom tries to tell himself.

“Well, it’s edible,” he replies as he rolls another mouthful of pasta onto his fork and stabs a piece of chicken onto it. “Pasta’s a bit overcooked.”

It’s actually not bad, it’s more than edible, but Tom is certainly not about to grant Greg that kind of satisfaction.

Before he starts eating, Greg pulls his chair further in. His legs accidentally knock into Tom’s under the tiny table.

“Oh! Sorry.”

He makes no move to extract his legs, however; they stay resting against Tom’s own, their knees just gently touching. The sensation almost burns, it is far too much _._

“Excuse me,” says Tom, getting up from his chair.

“Where are you going?” Greg asks.

He almost sounds worried, like he thinks Tom is gonna run off and ditch him.

_Shit, maybe I should._

“The little boys’ room,” Tom replies.

  
  


The restroom is what you’d expect from this type of establishment; clean(ish), doesn’t smell too bad, but the floors are wet and the paper towel holders empty.

Tom splashes his face with cold water.

“Snap out of it, you stupid fucking fruit,” he mutters at his own reflection.

Greg is smirking when Tom returns to the table.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing. I just... just seeing you in that suit among all these people dressed in like, sweatpants and jeans. I, uh, I just realized that we’re like, so overdressed for this place.”

“No, Greg,” Tom says, taking a seat. “It’s this place that is underdressed. The interior design here is an absolute eyesore. Might as well put up a sign saying, feel free to dine and dash!”

Greg laughs.

“It used to be a lot worse, actually.”

“I don’t see how that’s possible, Greg.”

Turning his attention back to his beloved linguini, Greg hums to himself. He must be enjoying himself so much right now, the bastard. One could almost think he’d planned for this.

“I think I could live off this stuff,” Greg says, smiling widely around a mouthful of pasta.

There they are, those fucking dimples.

_He’s not cute, he’s not cute, he’s not cute..._

  
  


The pulse quickens. Tom digs into his pasta, stabbing the pieces of chicken with his fork just a touch too hard.

  
  


And once again, Greg is letting his leg rest gently against his.

_Is he doing this on purpose?_ Tom has to wonder. _Or is he just so accustomed to having zero legroom wherever he goes, that he just... allows himself to have his legs touch other men’s?_ _What is this guy’s fucking deal?_

  
  


“Okay, Tom?”

“What?”

“You’re kinda, um... staring?”

_Stop staring, Tom, you fucking piece of shit._

“I’m... just waiting for you to finish your food.”

“I’m closer to the finish line than you are, Tom.”

“Just pipe down and eat your damn pasta, Greg. We’ve got a show to get to.”

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gregs will tell you “i know a place” and then take u to the california pizza kitchen lol
> 
> (disclaimer: i have not, nor will i ever go to, a CPK. so if this is full of inaccuracies, I’m sorry.)


	6. La Traviata

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys pretend to enjoy opera.

They’re not really running late, but Tom wishes to mingle before the show starts. It’s his favorite part of going out to events like these; rubbing shoulders with the New York elites over a glass of complimentary champagne, making sure they all know his name and exactly where he belongs on the food chain.

By some stroke of serendipitous luck, the opening of La Traviata at the Metropolitan Opera has coincided with his birthday, and he’ll be damned if he’s going to miss out on a single solitary second of that precious old money shoulder-rubbing time.

Greg hovers while Tom talks to some acquaintances, helping himself to more canapés than is socially acceptable, and occasionally chiming in with some inane drivel that makes the Balenciaga-clad divorcées titter awkwardly and exchange pointed glances between themselves. When not being met with a withering gaze from Tom, Greg is largely ignored. Eventually he gets bored and peels away of his own volition, like a wet old bandaid.

He starts wandering around aimlessly, admiring the interior of the opera. Tom is relieved, at first; he doesn’t know how to deal with Greg right now, and how he’s been making him feel. It’s all a bit much, even just looking at him, so it’s easier to pretend he doesn’t exist.

But chatting up older ladies? Now, _that_ Tom knows how to do. He compliments them generously, and makes a point of mentioning it’s his birthday every chance he gets.

It’s only when he notices Greg talking animatedly to a handsome, bespectacled young man in a deep violet suit that he hears sirens going off in his head.

“Excuse me, girls.”

He nods at the ladies and bows out of the conversation, making a beeline for Greg.

They’re laughing together. The ginger-haired stranger touches Greg’s arm.

_Oh, I think the fuck not!_

“Hey, Greg!” he all but shouts, purposely interrupting their conversation. “I was wondering where you’d snuck off to. Started getting worried you might’ve banged your head on the chandelier and bled out on the floor, haha.”

“Well, heh, you found me.” Greg looks embarrassed as Tom makes a big show of squeezing his arm. “Tom, this is-”

“Jeff Berwitz,” the interloper says, holding his hand out for a shake.

Tom grabs hold and makes sure to establish eye contact from the second their palms meet.

“Tom Wambsgans. Greg’s boss, mentor, friend.”

He can’t see his young protégé wincing behind him.

“Jeff is, um, the founder and CEO of SentIntel,” Greg explains while Tom focuses on having the firmer handshake. “It’s like, data protection software.”

The young tech mogul is the first to extract his hand. _Hah! What a beta._

“Data protection, yowza... so you must be a busy man these days, then?”

“Now more than ever,” Jeff smiles. “Just made it across the Great Divide for a conference, thought I’d sit in for a bit of your famous East Coast culture before I head back.”

“I see. SentIntel, huh?” Tom says, cocking his head to the side. “Forgive me but uh, it doesn’t quite roll off the tongue, does it? Do you often get people googling ‘sentinel’ instead and just... not being able to find your product?”

Jeff gets this curious look on his face; more baffled and amused than insulted. Perhaps he is not accustomed to the acerbic wit of the East.

“Heh, yeah it’s been known to happen,” he admits, shooting Greg a sideways glance. “Once or twice. But that was more in the beginning, like over a decade ago.”

“Uh-huh,” Tom nods, feigning interest.

“I mean, we’ve since established ourselves in the industry... despite the name not, uh, not quite rolling off the tongue. As you say.”

“Right.”

“We try to let the sheer quality of the product speak for itself, you know?”

“Oh, I see.” Tom raises his glass to him. “Well done, you. Ahaha.”

Jeff returns the gesture with a tight-lipped smile. The eye contact they make over their champagne flutes is unyielding.

“You’ll have to excuse me, gentlemen,” Jeff says. “It’s been a pleasure.”

He turns to Greg.

“Greg... perhaps I’ll see you around? It’s always so refreshing to find someone around these parts who’s been staying up to date, so to speak. Would love to pick your brain.”

 _Pick his brain?_ Tom wonders. _You won’t find much in there, my man._ But truth be told, it’s probably not really Greg’s brain that this prick is most interested in, anyway. 

“Oh, yeah!” Greg nods eagerly. “Totally.”

“Some other time, perhaps.”

_Not on my watch!_

The look that Jeff gives Tom before he leaves is extremely loaded.

Watching him as he goes, Tom hopes that the motherfucker can feel all the daggers he’s glaring at his back. If looks could kill, Jeff would be Caesar on the Senate Floor right now.

_Fuck off back to Palo Alto, you ugly nerd._

“Tom,” Greg sighs. “Why do you have to be like that?”

His boss whips around to face him.

“Like what, Greg?”

“Like... such a dick.”

“I beg your fucking pardon?” 

“He was nice, Tom. We were having a nice conversation.”

“About what? Avocado toast? The price of a Kanken backpack these days? Vibrating anus eggs?”

“God dude, no... we were just talking about tech-“

Tom pointedly looks at his wristwatch.

“Well, the show’s starting anyway. Let’s get moving, Kemosabe.”

_Tech this, tech that... it’s all just Greg Speak for “You’re fucking old as shit, Tom.”_

_—_

They’ve scored grand tier box seats - a perk of being connected to the Roys. In fact, the entire box is reserved for the family this evening, but it seems the only clan members in attendance are the ones _without_ the powerful surname.

It’s not very surprising, really: Shiv and Logan are apparently busy with each other and their schemes, Connor is busy strategizing with his team about his so-called “campaign”, and Kendall would probably much rather be at a rap concert. Roman, unable to sit still for more than five minutes at a time, would probably much rather be dead.

He’d expected Marcia to come, though, at the very least. She is a woman of class and taste, not to mention a passionate patron of the arts, and rarely misses a chance to soak up some high brow culture. However, Tom is relieved she’s not here; she might’ve brought that offspring of hers, God forbid. Plus - and Tom is not ashamed to admit this - he is more than a little bit scared of her.

So it’s just him and Greg in the box. That suits him just fine, actually.

  
  


“Hey um, Tom? Do you mind if I take the closer seat? I tend to sorta get, like, tired eyes?”

“You should probably see an optometrist about that, Greg.”

“Yeah, I’ve been meaning to.”

“You didn’t bring your opera glasses, then?” Tom teases.

While the crowds are still milling about above and below, they arrange themselves in the left hand corner of their box. Greg seems delighted at the amount of leg room.

“Sweet...”

“Best spot in the house, Greg.”

Greg nods, leafing through the program.

“So is this gonna be, like, in Italian or-?”

Tom tuts at him.

“Of course, Greg, you incorrigible plebe. They always perform in the original language.”

“Ahh, it’s just that, like... my grasp of Italian is um, tenuous at best, so...”

“Yeah, I don’t speak Italian, either, Greg. No one here does.”

He points to a large screen above the stage.

“You see that monitor?”

“Yeah?”

“That’s where the translations will appear.”

“Oh!” Greg exclaims. “Oh, well that’s a relief.”

Tom has to laugh; this boy sure is something else. He has to teach him everything, doesn’t he?

“You seen this before, Tom?” Greg asks.

“No, first time.”

“But you enjoy opera?”

Honestly? Not really. Sure, he can appreciate the effort and the care that goes into the production - the costume design, set design, what little there might be of choreography - but musically it’s usually just a bit too stuffy and old fashioned for his tastes. What he truly enjoys, in terms of live entertainment, is Broadway. But Shiv likes the opera... or at least he thinks she does?

Now that he really thinks about it, he’s not so sure anymore. _What does Shiv like?_ he starts to wonder. _Politics. Sex. Alcohol. Power suits. Her dad._

Either way, opera is the thing to enjoy if you want to be part of the upper crust. So Tom _has_ to enjoy opera, whether he likes it or not.

“Oh yeah,” Tom lies. “Yeah, I love the opera.”

“It’ll be a first for me!”

Greg squirms in his seat, looking pretty enthusiastic about the whole thing.

“I’m sure it is, Greg.”

  
_You’re about to be disappointed, kiddo._

The lights start to dim, and there comes a few stray notes from a variety of string instruments.

“Oh, I think it’s starting,” Greg says.

  
  


The conductor comes out to the customary amount of applause. He starts the strings. A sad man with a flower, clad all in black, walks across the stage. Minutes later, there is a scene with a large group of people in a lavish room adorned with foliage and flowers. It’s supposed to be a party, Tom guesses, but from his vantage point it looks like a pretty tedious affair. _Aren’t baroque folks supposed to know how to party?_

“Was that Meryl Streep?” Greg whispers in Tom’s ear as he claps politely.

“No, Greg,” Tom laughs. “Although she does bear a striking resemblance, I’ll give you that.”

“No, like I think it is her, dude.”

“Yeah okay, Greg. Sure.”

They’re only in the first ten minutes of act one, when Tom realizes that he’s really about to sit through two whole hours of this snoozefest.

At points he finds himself watching Greg more than the opera; the way his young friend pays attention (or at least pretends to) with his entire face, nodding along and clapping at all the right times. Tom knows Greg is as bored out of his skull as he is, and he has to admire his efforts.

He’s actually pretty easy on the eyes, that Gregory. There is something kind of exquisite about his profile; the straight, delicate slope of his nose, the artful dips and curves of his full lips... Tom is tempted to take his index finger and trace the line of Greg’s silhouette, all the way from his forehead down to his chin.

  
_Fuck off, Tom._  
  


“It’s, um, kinda hard to read the translation from here,” Greg says, squinting.

Tom leans in, puts a hand on his friend’s arm.

“You really do need glasses.”

Greg just smiles and turns back to watch the show.

Against all reason, Tom allows his hand to linger.

_The fuck am I doing?_ he asks himself. _Oh, what the fucking fuck am I doing?_

But he still doesn’t move his hand - he even doubles down on the madness, allowing his fingers to dance along the hem of Greg’s cuffs, and eventually down onto the skin of his dainty wrist. Testing the waters.

Greg stirs in his seat. Tom hears him sucking in a sharp breath, and his big blue eyes go even bigger. They dart hither and yon, but Greg never turns to look at him. He never brushes his hand away, either.

_Is he into this?_ Tom wonders. _Or am I way off the fucking mark here?_

While Greg keeps his attention on the show, Tom keeps his attention on Greg; watching him closely, observing how his eyes start blinking rapidly, how his chest rises and falls.

Tom lets his index finger stroke the soft skin on the back of his friend’s hand. Greg swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. He licks his lips. His cheeks begin to flush. His brow perspires.

_So fucking hot._

  
  


Tom considers graduating from arm touching to a bit of cheeky leg touching. But when he eventually manages to tear his eyes away from Greg, he happens to peer up at the balcony above and looks directly into a pair of opera glasses.

One of the women he’d been talking to earlier, she is watching them instead of the show.

It suddenly dawns on Tom that they are, in fact, sitting in a very open, very public space.

Muttering a quick “excuse me,” he gets up from his seat. Greg turns his head after him as he goes, looking worried and confused, but he makes no immediate attempts to follow.

  
  


_God, you fucking idiot,_ Tom scolds himself as he hurries down the stairs. _You stupid, stupid man. He’s your wife’s cousin, he’s your employee, he’s so much younger than you, he’s a fucking man._

Tom doesn’t know which is more scandalous.

Not only that: Tom is a married man. He’s married to an amazing, beautiful, smart, rich, sexy woman... but on the other hand, the amazing woman in question did give him carte blanche to “fuck the odd peasant”. And he just wants to please her, really. 

_But fucking her cousin, would that please her?_ Tom has to ask himself. _Could Greg be classified as one of the peasants?_ _He is certainly peasant-like._

Splashing cold water on his face usually helps a bit, but this time it’s utterly pointless. He needs a hard slap in the face, is what he needs. Maybe he could pay someone off the street to give him a good whack?

Tom wants to yell. He wants to cry. 

Instead he takes a deep breath and pulls out his phone.

Still no birthday text from Shiv. Should he call her? Pour his heart out to her over the phone, confess everything? What would she think? What would she say?

Would she, once again, just brush him off and say “Tom, we’re both adults”?

A terrible thought intrudes on his mind: _What if Shiv’s not even with her dad right now?_

She might be sixtynineing in a ratty hotel room with some Rasputin-looking motherfucker who writes opinion pieces on Scandinavian minimalist furniture for The New Yorker or some shit.

It’s really not outside the realm of possibility, Tom now realizes; you’d think that she wouldn’t be so goddamn eager to keep following Logan around like a dog, not after how he’s been treating her lately.

_Maybe she had only used her father as an excuse to get away from me._

“Tom..?”

The long, lean form of Gregory Hirsch darkens the doorway to the restroom, and he is looking genuinely worried. He looks worried _for him_ , for Tom - and shit, that’s not something you see every day, is it?

Right now, Greg looks so warm and safe and sweet.

_Tom, you fucking clown. How the fuck can you be in love with two people at once?_

“You okay, man?” Greg asks.

“Yeah,” Tom replies, cool drops of water still dripping down his face, hot tears lying in wait in the corners of his eyes.

“Do you... um. do you wanna like, get out of here, or..?”

“God, yes.”

  
  


When the coat check girl hands them their coats, there’s a puzzled look on her face.

“Were you not enjoying the show, Sir?” she asks.

“Uhh...”

He looks over at Greg, waiting patiently for him at the exit.

Tom feels like he should make something up, like an excuse for leaving well before the show is over; it’s just unsophisticated and rude to not stay until the end. He knows that much.

But then something comes over him, and he simply shrugs.

“No, actually,” he replies, a bit surprised at himself now. “No, not really. Hah! Honestly, it was like watching paint dry.”

  
  


It feels pretty damn good to say exactly how he feels, for a change.

  
  



	7. Make A Wish!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein the author uses food as a conduit for romance~

Most of the taxi ride towards Tribeca is spent in silence. Greg stares at Tom as if he’s waiting for him to speak, to finally let him know what’s got him so frazzled. But eventually it becomes abundantly clear that he won’t, and Greg breaks the silence for him.

“So, um... like, if you had one birthday wish for today, what would it be?” 

“What?”

“What’s the one thing that you would really love to have right now? For your birthday?”

_You. You in my bed. You on my lips. You in my hands. You all over me and me all over you._

  
  


“Pancakes,” he says instead.

“Pancakes?” Greg echoes.

“My parents, back in St. Paul... for my birthday they would always wake me up with this huge stack of pancakes for breakfast. Ever since I was a little kid. Maple syrup and bacon, a square of butter, whipped cream, chocolate chips, blueberries. Sparkler on top. The whole kit and caboodle.”

Greg hums with a fond smile on his lips. He then proceeds to take out his phone, and he fiddles with the damn thing until they finally arrive at Franklin Street.

_Fucking millennial._  
  


Up in Greg’s condo, they crack open a bottle of Côte du Rhône.

“Here’s to you, Tom,” Greg announces, holding his glass of red aloft. “A happy birthday and many happy returns.”

“Thanks, bud.”

Tom holds his glass out and they toast.

“Sorry it’s not um, like champagne or anything. I’m fresh out.”

“It’s fine, Greg. I think I’ve had it with champagne for today, anyway.”

Tom squirms. This is a bad idea, probably, being alone with Greg - getting wine drunk with Greg - when he’s in this state. He’s all sad and lonely and horny and confused, and now he’s about to drown his inhibitions in alcohol with one of the very people responsible for his emotional turmoil.

By the time that wine bottle is empty, Tom will no doubt start staring at Greg’s pink, pouty lips, or his sad eyes, or his long neck. He’ll be watching his friend’s piano player hands as they gesticulate idly, and he’ll be tempted to grab Greg by his skinny wrists and kiss those lovely fingers.

Tom is ripe for being taken advantage of - and the worst part? He thinks he wants to be. One word from Greg, and he’ll follow him up to his bedroom.

_Yeah, this is a fucking terrible idea,_ Tom decides as he drains his glass.

  
  


They chat loosely for a little while, about everything and nothing at all - which is the best wine country, where to go for brunch in Tribeca, etcetera - before a call comes in over the intercom.

Greg rushes to get it.

“Hey hey,” he says, ever so jovial.

From where Tom is sitting, the doorman is unintelligible over the com.

“Yeah, send him up,” Greg replies.

Apparently they won’t be alone for much longer. Tom should be relieved, he knows this, but that doesn’t stop the heavy weight of disappointment settling in the pit of his stomach.

“Who’s coming?”

_Better not be fucking Kendall._

“It’s not who,” Greg answers with an enigmatic smirk. “It’s _what._ ”

“The fuck does that mean, Greg? Stop being cryptic, it doesn’t suit you.”

The elevator doors soon open, and in walks an uncertain looking, mustachioed young fellow. He is carrying a plastic bag in each hand.

“Hey, uh- Gregory?”

“That’s me!” Greg chirps.

“Got everything you asked for,” the kid says, handing him the bag.

“Sweet,” Greg mutters, peering into the bags.

_Oh, great. I’m about to become the unwilling participant of a two-man drug binge, aren’t I? How fucking wretched._

Maybe he should take this as a golden opportunity to do as much coke as he can possibly fit up his nose, really get stuck in. Try and overdose a little. Not that he wants to die or anything, obviously... but perhaps a soft cry for help wouldn’t hurt?

“Hey man, I don’t have any, uh, spare change,” Greg tells the delivery boy. “But I can leave a tip on the app, right?”

“Sure, no problem.”

“Okay cool, thanks!”

The delivery boy makes himself scarce - _Thank God!_ \- and Greg brings the plastic bags to his little kitchen island.

“Alright,” he says with a secretive smirk. “I want you to close your eyes, okay?”

“Ugh. What for, Greg?”

“A surprise!”

  
  


Sighing heavily, Tom does what he’s told. But he listens intently.

He can hear plastic rustling, a plate and cutlery being brought out, a microwave buzzing, the dry scraping of cardboard, the crinkling of plastic. The unmistakable sound of whipped cream from a can.

Tom fights against a big, dumb grin that is threatening to split his face in half; he thinks he has some inkling of what’s coming.

“Keep ‘em closed...”

He can feel Greg fixing something uncomfortable to his head - it feels an awful lot like a party hat. Then he hears a match being struck, and a strange kind of sizzling noise.

“Okay, open ‘em.”

  
  


A stack of fluffy pancakes, a piece of butter melting on top, drenched in maple syrup, bacon on the side, topped off with whipped cream, chocolate chips and blueberries. Three lit sparklers stick out of the stack, making it a culinary pyrotechnics display.

“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you...”

Tom has to smile. Greg’s singing voice is surprisingly pleasant.

“Happy birthday, dear Thomaaaaaas... happy birthday to you!”

The birthday ditty fizzles out along with the sparklers, and Tom is at a loss for words.

“I’m sorry it’s not a candle,” Greg says, putting his hands on his hips. “I didn’t even think to get one of those. But uh, maybe you could make a wish anyway?”

Tom can feel his eyes starting to get a bit leaky.

_Keep it together now, Wambsgans._

“I think I’m a little bit too old for all that, Greg.”

“Nobody’s too old for that, dude. Go on.”

Seeing no other choice, Tom closes his eyes and wishes.

_I wish you would kiss me right now, you ridiculous man._

  
  


“Don’t tell me what the wish is!”

“Oh, I won’t.”

Greg looks back at him expectantly.

“So, um. Do you like it?”

He looks so goddamn hopeful, so eager and sweet, his blue eyes lit up with a burning desire for approval. He is bewitching. Perhaps Tom ought to burn him at the stake for putting a spell on him.

“Yeah, I like it, Greg,” he says, that ache in his chest returning. “I like it a lot. You must’ve gone to a lot of trouble for all this. Thanks, buddy.”

“Oh, good!” Greg says, relieved. “And hey no sweat, man. It’s just Postmates.”

“Post what?”

“Nevermind. Hey uh, dig in!”

Tom grabs his knife and fork, bracing himself for scaling this veritable mountain of flapjacks.

“I don’t think I can eat all this, Greg. I’m still pretty full from dinner.”

“I’ll help you!” Greg says, and opens a drawer to grab another pair of cutlery. “I’m like, always hungry.”

“I’ve noticed,” Tom remarks, not entirely without fondness.

The pancakes are fluffy, and pair astoundingly well with the red. They eat in silence for the most part, with Greg occasionally going “mmm” and looking at Tom for confirmation that he is indeed still enjoying himself, still having a good birthday.

Tom feels kind of sorry for him at that moment, although he isn’t quite sure why.

“Where’d you find pancakes at this time of day anyway?”

“There’s a little place a couple blocks from here,” Greg shrugs. “They do ‘em all day. Great brunch spot, too.”

“You’ll have to take me sometime.”

Greg’s hand goes up to his hair again, a tiny smile playing on his lips.

“Yeah, uh. Sure.”

  
  


After their second dinner of the evening they are sprawled out on the sofa, side by side with the top buttons of their pants undone, lamenting their overeating. Greg smokes a joint.

“I can’t believe we finished that whole stack,” he says with a little cough.

“Yeah, you put in some impressive work, buddy. Proud of you. You’re like an anaconda.”

Greg laughs softly at that. A delightful sound.

“Oh God,” Tom groans, sinking further down on the sofa. “I don’t think I can move for a while now.”

“Care to partake?” Greg asks as he holds his roach out to Tom. “It’ll help you, uh, metabolize?”

“No, I think I’m paranoid enough as it is, thank you.”

Greg shrugs, leaving the rest of his roach to go out in the ashtray.

“Did you have an okay birthday, though?” he asks, turning to look Tom in the eye. “All things considered?”

“Oh yeah, I mean... it didn’t turn out exactly the way I’d expected, but it was pretty doomed from the get-go, I guess. With Shiv bailing on me like that.”

He looks over at Greg, who now has a sort of wistful, dreamy look on his face. _Is he staring at my mouth for a reason,_ Tom speculates, _or is he just fucking high?_

He could kiss him now. Perhaps he should? He thinks Greg wants him to. He is so high and Tom is so drunk... if they were to regret it in the morning, they could just blame it on the boogie.

_No. That’s not how you do it, Tom, you absolute creep._

“But yeah, I had a good time,” Tom finally adds. “I’m glad you came out with me today. And the pancakes, too... everything. Thanks, bud.”

He slaps Greg’s thigh - not too hard, just enough that he’ll know his efforts are appreciated, that they’re still mates. For a brief moment he considers letting his hand linger again. No one to spy on them here! That is, unless Shiv’s got eyes on him in one of the buildings opposite. She could’ve paid some old ex-CIA guy to keep an eye out, to see if he’s gone to fuck Nia Bayton.

_She wouldn’t, though. Would she?_

Greg smiles softly.

“I had fun too, Tom.”

_Kiss him. Kiss him now._

Instead, Tom pulls away. The more space between him and Greg, the better. Safer that way.

Suddenly, he feels compelled to ask:

“Hey... why are you being so nice to me?”

Greg just laughs.

“Why am I being nice?”

“Yeah, I haven’t, um. I haven’t always been very nice to you.”

This only earns him another confused and worried look from Greg.

“Sure you have. I mean. Sometimes. Also like, it’s your birthday, so...”

“I just, uh,” Tom laughs, “I’m not sure I really deserve it.”

“You do, though!” Greg insists. “I mean yeah, sure, like... I guess at times things have been sorta, um, tense between us? Like a weird energy? Mostly coming from you?”

“Yeah, okay-”

“I mean you did kind of threaten to break my legs...”

Tom blinks back at him and crosses his arms over his chest. _Where oh where might this be going,_ he wonders.

“But uh, you basically got me off the streets. So like I’m super thankful for that. And also that you covered for me in Hungary... like, I haven’t forgotten. You’ve been kind of a life saver, y’know?”

“Careful, Greg. One might think that you actually like me.”

“I do, though.”

“Bullshit!” Tom laughs. “You put up with me.”

“No-”

“It’s okay, Greg, you can say it. I know I’m not the most easy guy to get along with. Okay? It’s fine.”

“Well yeah, alright, but... I don’t know, like, I think you’re good deep down. Or whatever.”

“I’m good deep down?” Tom laughs. “Who the fuck says that? Nobody’s good deep down, everyone’s a total piece of shit deep down!”

Greg looks affronted.

“You really think that?”

“Yeah!”

“You think that of me, too?”

“Oh, you most of all, my friend.”

Perhaps it’s just the weed making Greg’s eyes go all watery, but he looks genuinely hurt.

“Oh hey, listen. I didn’t mean it like that, okay? I like you, Greg. I do. I...”

_Fucking adore you. Would love to kiss you._

“I like you a lot.”

“I like you too,” Greg sighs.

_What the is he thinking? What is that boy ever fucking thinking?_

“You alright there, buddy?” Tom asks, finally daring to reach out and touch his friend’s knee.

Greg looks up at him with shiny, bloodshot eyes. He sucks on his bottom lip. With his hair all tousled and his mouth so red and wet, he looks very kissable right now.

It almost seems deliberate. _Has this been his game the whole time?_ Tom wonders. _With his casual Shiv-bashing?_ Greg had warned him about her infidelities, too, and at the time Tom had thought it was just a friend looking out for a friend, but now he’s starting to think that perhaps Greg had tried to put a stop to the wedding. Maybe he’s had designs on him all along.

If so, Tom just hopes to God he isn’t being honeydicked for whatever scheme Greg’s got cooking with Kendall, which is also a possibility.

“Ask me again,” Greg says.

“Ask you what?”

“What you, um, asked me... the first day we met.”

“The day we met?”

Tom scooches closer on the sofa. He thinks he knows where this is headed, but he wants Greg to say it. He needs to be one hundred percent sure.

“You don’t remember?”

Oh, Tom remembers. Of course he fucking does. At the time his awkward joke - or what he had _thought_ was just a joke, at least - had baffled even himself. But now, looking back on it, he thinks he knows why he’d said it.

It’s been staring him in the face ever since Greg first set his giant foot in Logan’s home, and he probably should have known it already then. Tom had taken one look at Greg and been overwhelmed by this emotion he couldn’t quite place; something like a mix of curiosity and frustration.

Truth be told, it was like being back in college. These new pledges would waltz into their frat house, all wide-eyed and bushy tailed, and Tom had felt an intense urge to bully them. That all went with the territory, of course - what _wasn’t_ very normal, however, is how he’d also kind of wanted to kiss some of them.

Tom had quickly squashed those feelings, though, with the tried and tested Triple H: hazing, hard liquor and hetero sex. It wasn’t a perfect system, obviously, but at least it was numbing.

Perhaps he should’ve caught on at the Thanksgiving dinner, when Marcia’s son had arrived on the scene and peaked Greg’s attention. Tom had not liked that, not one bit. And once again, this violent urge to assert himself and establish dominance had welled up inside of him, without him really being able to identify the root cause.

But now it’s all so fucking crystal clear.

“What did I ask you?” Tom asks, feigning ignorance.

“You, uh,” Greg stammers, “you asked me... if-“

Something starts vibrating in Tom’s pants. He tears himself away from Greg, ignoring the look of disappointment that comes over his friend’s face, and fishes his phone out of his pocket.

It’s Shiv.

  
  


“Hiya, honey!”

“Hey, where are you?”

With some difficulty, Tom gets up from the sofa and goes to stand a bit further away from Greg while he takes the call.

“I’m uh, just at your cousin’s,” he says, buttoning up his pants.

“Oh, okay. Well, I’ll send a car over.”

“Oh. What, now?”

“Uh, yeah? It’s getting late, Tom. Don’t you wanna spend what’s left of your birthday with me?”

Tom turns and peers over at Greg; he is sat there hunched over and looking dejected. His long fingers are playing with a loose thread on the side of the sofa.

“Of course I do, honey badger...”

“Cool, I’ll send a car then. What’s the address?”

“Sixty... uh, sixty-seven Franklin.”

“Cool. See you soon!”

She hangs up.

  
  


“That was Shiv.”

Greg nods.

“M-hm. Yeah, I got that.”

“She’s gonna send a car over.”

“Okay.”

Greg’s voice is quiet now. He sounds so small. _Oh no, this doesn’t feel great._

“Sorry, buddy, she just-“

“Yeah no, it’s totally cool.”

Greg peels himself off of the sofa and walks over to Tom. His mouth is just a thin line across his face.

“Like obviously you should, um... you should go spend the last hour of your birthday with, uh, with your wife.”

His long fingers automatically go to his hair, trying to tuck away a lock that is no longer there. 

“You should go. Not, you know, sit here and like, get wasted with... _Cousin Greg._ Heh.”

He tries to make a joke of it, but the little laugh that accompanies it is weak, and his smile dies before it even reaches his eyes.

Tom doesn’t quite know what to say.

“Hey uh, will you let yourself out, though?” Greg asks, gesturing to the elevator. “Like I just- I just realized that it’s a school night and I’m actually like super tired, so...”

His eyes won’t meet Tom’s and his voice is kind of wobbly, like he’s trying to keep it together.

“Oh yeah, of course.”

“Alright, um... see you tomorrow I guess.”

Greg heads for the stairs to his bedroom, but Tom catches him by the arm.

“Greg-”

“Yes?”

Tom’s heart breaks at how hopeful those blue eyes look.

“If... if you need to call in sick tomorrow, you just go ahead and do that. I won’t tell your boss. Ahah.”

He smiles softly. Greg just blinks at him.

“Oh, okay,” he nods. “Yeah. Uh- thanks, man.”

Tom lets go of his arm and watches his friend trudging slowly up the stairs to his bedroom. His feet are looking pretty heavy.

Would it really be so bad, though, if he just followed him up there? If he just cancelled the car, ditched Shiv like she ditched him, and spent the rest of the night kissing Greg? Would that really be the end of the fucking world?

_Oh grow up, Tom._

  
  


“Hey, Greg?”

Greg turns at the top of the stairs, looking less hopeful and more wary this time.

“Yeah?”

_I want you._

“I, uh... I had a really nice time today.”

Greg sighs, with that same sad little smile on his face.

“Yeah. Me too, man.”

  
  


—

Tom smiles as he walks through the front door and spots the flowers from Greg. Maryna has trimmed and caringly arranged them in a tall crystal vase on the console in the hallway.

Next to it stands the little birthday card. Tom can’t help but feel a bit melancholy when he sees it.

  
_Don’t fucking dwell on it._

He’s happy to be home at last, he really is. The car ride over has given him some time to compartmentalize, and he has now come to the conclusion that this is how it should be; Tom coming home to the woman he loves. Just a man and a woman, united in their marital bed.

The whole thing with him and Greg, it was all a bit fanciful, a moment of weakness. Tom was just feeling lonely, that’s all. He knows that now.

“Honey, I’m home!” he yells out.

No response comes.

When he enters their bedroom, he finds that Shiv is already in bed and fast asleep. She even has her eye mask on, the one with ‘DO NOT DISTURB’ embroidered on it. Earplugs, too.

_So much for the birthday hang, then._

Regret setting in, Tom grabs his phone and texts Greg.

**You still up?**

An hour goes by, then two, and still not a peep from his phone. Tom types out another message, saying he’s sorry, but he loses his nerve and deletes it before he can muster up the courage to press ‘send’. He does this a few more times before he decides to try and get some much needed shuteye.

He wonders if Greg is just asleep or if he’d actually seen his text and decided to ignore him.

_Probably for the best, anyway,_ Tom thinks, trying to make himself feel better. _You can’t have your cake and fuck it too, you greedy piece of shit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * I Can Never Be Your Woman by White Town plays *
> 
> I’m so sorry!!!!! I didn’t mean for this fic to turn out like it did but. it lives its own life, I’ve no control over it.
> 
> (anyway whats with me and pancakes huh. if I had a penny for every time I used pancakes as a token of affection in a fic..... I’d have two pennies. thats not a lot but it’s weird that it happened twice)


End file.
